Adaptive Curmudgeon

Just for the record, I’ve never physically seen the Georgia Guidestones nor do I give a shit about them or take them seriously. I always assumed some dipshit with more money than sense freebased whatever their University professor told them and built it as a LARP. Someone who’s never read Ozymandias and has a mental state somewhere around “Legos and recycling”.

I consider the stones a cross between “Stonehenge for Meganerds” and “Little Orphan Annie Decoder Ring”.

Regardless, they exist. They’ve got 10 inscriptions in 6 languages. The inscriptions are generic eco-speak Utopian bullshit. The kid of stuff that’s common ground between Ted Kaczynski and George Soros. Or maybe you could consider it a collaboration between a James Bond supervillain and Al Gore.

Notably it calls for the destruction of most human beings on planet earth… for the good of the planet of course. I’m not sure why leftie eco-nuts like to talk about killing off most of humanity (leave just 500 million of us). They seem to have the rock solid personal belief that the humans that ought to keep living somehow includes them (and not for example, farmers or physicists). “Everyone sucks except me.”

Nerds gotta’ nerd right?

Anyway, someone blew it up.

Bwa ha ha ha ha!

It’s just soooooooo damn funny.

This is how I imagine the dumbass rocks of woke-ness came into being:

“I want to kill all the humans.”

“Can’t you take up a hobby? Bowling is fun.”

“Nope! I want to kill all the humans because that’s better for the earth… which apparently cares about such things. I’ve found a bunch of other dumbasses that have the same goal. We made a secret society called “every college everywhere”. We’ll make rocks that document our secret society’s desire to kill all humans.”

“Wouldn’t that defeat the whole ‘secret’ part?”

“Nah, every university professor is in on it, you’d have to be completely stupid not to have heard it by now. It’s basically a requirement for tenure to declare you want to kill all humans… and also that you’re super-woke.”

“When you kill everyone, you’re going to spare the professors?”

“Ha! Why? Those guys are schmucks. We’re only going to spare hot chicks and people who can cook a good soufflé. And maybe one doctor. The rest go into the wood chipper… for the common good of course.”

“Of course, what other reason is there to have humans but to kill them! It will protect a planetary sphere from the monkeys living on it.”

“Yes, and then for Phase 2 of our master plan we will…”

BOOM!

“Looks like someone done blew up your shit!”

“Sigh, it’s so hard being the master rulers of society.”

The fun doesn’t stop there. I was trying to remember what the fuck they wrote on the stones. I remembered the general gist of things but what were the details?

So I clicked on Wikipedia. At 1:45 MST I read it. It surprised me with a line that said something like “On July 6, 2022 the Georgia Guidestones were blown up by a proletariat that didn’t like being killed off.”

I paraphrase because less than 16 minutes later it was already gone!

I just saw a tiny hint that there’s a secret war of dipshit nerds out there. Someone is putting up expensive rocks (nothing new about that) and someone else (who knows who?) is one is blowing up stupid rocks. Both sides (apparently?) are desperately trying to manage the situation in Wikipedia. Like, you got rocks and shit to bust rocks… fretting about wikipedia is just slowing y’all down.

Ha ha ha ha!

Oh my gosh there’s even more!

When I check stuff on the internet I often make a local copy. Why? Because some dipshit might try to edit the file. (It is 2022, it’s not like we haven’t seen information turn into i propaganda.)

It turns out I’ve got an unedited copy of the Wikipedia article.

Yes folks, right here at my Curmudgeonly blog I’ve got the very text that dipshits who edit Wikipedia articles don’t want you to know. Bwa ha ha ha ha… who knew an open browser tab and a hard drive could be so much fun!

It’s a little small to read. Trust me that the line about “proletariat realized that they would be the ones who were targeted” and “celebrations as symbol of oppression was reduced to rubble”… that shit was memory holed tout suite!

Bwa ha ha ha ha… It’s all so funny. Who knew rocks some nerd stuck in the dirt had so many panties in a twist?

Incidentally, if the FBI is investigating (for whatever definition of investigating the FBI does… for all I know they’re the ones blowing shit up)… I have no information about anyone or the fucking rocks. Nor do I have any dirt on Hillary Clinton. Nor do I have the slightest doubt that Epstein killed himself. While I’m at it inflation is transitory, everything is fine, and I believe in the Easter Bunny.

The only important part about the “new world order” is that they’re incompetent boobs who got wedgies in high school and deserve it. They’re fun to mock and otherwise irrelevant to the real world. I know exactly as much as you’d expect from a dude who writes about squirrels. I know to laugh!

I’m on a kick with gasoline / white gas camping gear lately. Here’s the links in reverse order:

• Camping Discussion: Let There Be Light
• Camping Discussion: WIN!
• Camping Gear Discussion: Photos & Testing
• Camping Gear Discussion: Restoring Old Friends And Buying Their New Counterparts

In the end I bought a Coleman Powerhouse Dual Fuel lantern and a Coleman 1 Burner Dual Fuel Sportster 533 Stove. I’ve used the stove several times and the lantern a few times. Both have been reliable and a memory of my youth.

Here’s the interesting part, when I sought the Dual Fuel Stove (in April) they were more or less gone. Coleman itself was sold out. So was every camping store in creation; physical or online. I wound up paying premium through a third party because I thought maybe the model had been lawyered out of existence.

It is three months later and they’re back in stock. Coleman has apparently pulled its head out of its ass and caught up with demand. I salute them for keeping up instead of quitting. May they long profit!

They’re available from Amazon and available (cheaper) from Coleman. Both prices are less than what I paid a few months ago. Oh well, you place your bets and take your chances. Also, I’ve enjoyed owning the set the last few months; so no regrets.

I’ll be camping this weekend and will have the two devices with me. I’ll enjoy the hell out of them!

However, I don’t recommend them for everyone. If you’re an ultralight backpacker, forget it… they both weigh a ton. If you’re easily freaked out by flames or worried about kids, they’re not ideal.

For light, batteries and LED devices are far less cumbersome. Though nothing lights up a campsite like an alien landing zone quite as well as a good old fashioned gas & mantle lantern. Flashlights and headlamps get the job done, a liquid fuel lantern is better for ambience.

For cooking, it depends on what you’re doing. If you want to cook fast with a light weigh device get a JetBoil. They run on expensive disposable little butane canisters but they can boil water as fast as a microwave! I used my JetBoil for years and it was a good piece of kit. The biggest drawback is you wind up with a bunch of half used canisters hanging around. Also, if you run out of butane, you’re screwed. The radiator fins on a JetBoil container aren’t useable over a wood fire. That’s a not a big deal until it’s the most important thing ever! (Don’t ask how I know.)

If you don’t care about weight and don’t want to think too hard just get a generic propane burner on a 1 pound disposable canister. (They’re dirt cheap aside from the propane canister. I own a few of them too.) You’ll end up with a bunch of half filled propane canisters (unless you refill them which is a sketchy hassle). Also, one pound disposeable tanks are ridiculously expensive in the Bidenverse.

The dual fuel Coleman wins if you’re willing to tinker a bit with the flame and wait a minute longer for your coffee to percolate. In exchange, you can use fuel that’s the cheapest of the bunch and available literally everywhere. The stoves have near bulletproof reliability… including in cold weather. (Gas fuels can and do freeze. The temperature at which they freeze and conk out are exactly the conditions when a froze up stove will kick your ass! If you’re a summer only camper you’ll never encounter this, if you’re a winter camper you already know it.) Also, I find the slower pace and more “campfire-ish” stove is a bit of a mellow pleasure. YMMV

One last note, all things go full circle. I started camping with basic foods from a grocery store, firewood from the forest, and a frying pan. Step by step I’m turning back to that path.

When I was a young Curmudgeon it was a pain in the ass. A frying pan is heavy, wood coals are a messy bitch to cook over, and it’s all very slow. Then again it was all I had and it worked. So that’s what I did.

Over time I got serious and went very deep into nature. I switched to boiling water with butane and wonder stoves. I’d dump the water into a Mountain House envelope and chow down. It was fast and easy but definitely lacks in style. No regrets, it was a good time.

Now I’m gradually reverting to the old ways. Here’s an small old frying pan I scrounged up for this weekend’s camping; whiskey bottle for scale. (Yes the whiskey goes camping with me too!)

Don’t get me wrong, Mountain House is great food; easy to make and carry. But for some reason, I feel like it’s time for something new. I’ve a primal need to fry bacon on a little skillet. Note too that I raised the bacon myself and the eggs come from my own hens!

I can’t remember where I got it but I doubt it’s a valuable antique. I thought it came in a novelty thing like a Pepperidge Farms type gift pack. Mrs. Curmudgeon thinks it came from a lawn sale in Maine 30 years ago. She’s better at remembering things than me.

It’s just the right size for the campstove but nothing is officially a good idea until I’ve tried it a few times. I’ll report back later.

As the world goes mad, the little things help keep you rooted. If an extra ten minutes  percolating coffee (instead of a speedy JetBoil French press) and cooking actual eggs on a clunky iron skillet (instead of a freeze dried wonder meal) keeps me happy/sane… why not?

Of course, none of this rules out cooking on a legit fire; which I do whenever I’ve got time to kill, there are no burning restrictions, and it’s cold out. (All stoves, liquid fueled or gas fueled, are ok under most burning restrictions.) My truck always has my folding campstove. I usually carry a trashcan of pallet wood. Parks limit you to purchased firewood and they charge $7+ a pop. I get it, popular parks would be a desert if everyone gathered available fuels and shipping in remotely grown firewood brings bugs. Pallet wood is my solution. It’s 100% bug free. It’s kiln dried so it lights easy. I cut out every nail so it’s perfectly clean. It’s super convenient. A trashcan in the truck bed is a great way to carry it. It’s a goodly supply, it keeps the wood bone dry, and nobody ever questions or steals a trash can.

However you do it, get out in nature and away from the news. Happy camping y’all!

A.C.

(Note: The links go to Amazon. I put the links up to make life easier for people who want actionable information. I get a few percent kickback if you buy anything from those links and it costs you absolutely nothing. So if you’re planning on buying a Ferrari or something, please go through my link! Also, it’s not like I’m exploiting you to get rich. In the last 30 days I’ve made something like 57 cents.)

Through rain obscured visor I could see the flashing lights of the tow truck’s chase car in the far distance. He and his entourage was the biggest thing on the road. I was the smallest. Then again we were the only people on the road. Traffic had completely vanished. If I was catching up that meant he was going slow.

That probably meant there was a crosswind.

I felt the cold rain against skin. Only a few hours ago, I’d been caked in sweat and sawdust. Now I had the best chill a man could ask for. I felt completely rejuvenated.

I thought about all the cringing sorrowful people who’ve recently castrated themselves and, to the extent they could, the world. What would they think of me; soaked and grinning, a madman carefully navigating a swirling dangerous environment?

They spent two years hiding in their basement. How many precious moments have been lost? What portion of a limited mortal lifespan can be burned on the altar of safety before it hurts too deeply. For me? Steal a minute and I’ll never forgive. For them? The prison of their mind is a comfortable safe space.

Whatever it might have been, we know what it is now. Covid is not the Black Plague. The dead were not stacked like cordwood on the streets of Manhattan. Yet, society reels from the orgy of terror. Why did they do it? Perhaps they enjoyed it?

This has happened before. On October 22, 1844 the Earth was not destroyed by fire at Christ’s Second Coming. The sun rose just like any other day on our glorious green planet. The Millerites were so vexed they coined the term The Great Disappointment. There was no fire and brimstone… what a bummer.

They must lust for it. Not actual challenge. Anyone who wants can find actual challenge. Select your mountain to climb; give it a shot and either summit or fail as appropriate. What they covet is the idea; not the reality. Lifestyles that grind to a halt over the possibility of danger. A worldview that confuses social media with reality! How many of their “triggers” come from bots and how many from self-limiting humans. For that matter, what’s the practical difference between self-limited humans and bots?

How sad. To have carefully avoided life’s vital energy has got to be the worst death of all.

Lightning struck a few miles behind me with a terrific crack. It illuminated the road ahead and I could see a patch of trees ahead flailing wildly in the wind. Their motion was subtly different. The wind was crossing the road perpendicularly and this particular terrain was something of a funnel. I moved toward the center line, checked my seating position, leaned slightly, and let my body relax.

Don’t fight it, ride it.

The predicted gust caught me on the side. An insistent but manageable nudge against a properly balanced motorcycle. I shrugged most of it off but also gave way a little. The bike shifted with the wind and away from the centerline; just a foot or two. No worries, I had the whole dam road at my disposal and I’d already slowed down. No muss, no fuss. I planned for it to happen, it happened as I’d planned.

As abruptly as it happened, it was over. We (the bike and I) were out of that little vortex and back in the regular stream of rain and wind. I wasn’t aggressively leaned over fighting it so I didn’t have to pull out of a sudden swerve when the wind partially dissipated. This ‘aint my first rodeo.

A turnip can drive a modern car. Strap a human slab of meat into a three point harness; equip it with anti-lock brakes, automatic transmission, sophisticated traction control, and all the modern gadgetry… it’ll drive exactly as well as any quasi-sentient meat out there. The beings you’ll find on an average road are almost entirely like that. Meat will roll along merrily, staying more or less between the lines while its empty head is distracted by a cell phone in one hand and its ass in the other.

Not so for me. A motorcycle surfing the leading edge of a windstorm has a lot less safety margin. I must handle the situation using mind more than brawn. Fortunately reality gives me all the hints I need. For example, when it rains I get wet. Who can deny that? Who would fail to acknowledge different traction conditions in the rain? I don’t need a computer for that. A skull and its contents are just fine.

Also, I have focus. Unlike the meat in an SUV, I have skin in the game. If I fuck up, I crash. I hope that doesn’t happen, but I accept that as part of life. Perhaps many people spend their lives without the singular focus I mustered just to ride through a storm?

It could be worse. I could be sitting home getting triggered by someone’s mean tweets.

A few miles further and I’d caught up with the tow truck. It was a whole lot of rolling mass to consider. A monster tow truck pulling a semi tractor still hitched to a sixty foot grain trailer; complete with chase car. The wind shifted again and I felt it tearing at my windward arm. Physics doesn’t give a shit about your plans. No fuckin’ way was I going to pass a towed empty trailer under those conditions.

A turnip would hit the blinker (or not) and rocket past, hydroplaning the whole way. No guarantee they’d be able to define, much less detect, hydroplaning. Their car would probably figure it out (or not). Expecting sensors in a wheel hub to anticipate the blast of wind off a hundred feet of heavy rolling stock in a windstorm is asking a lot. A good driver knows this but turnips aren’t very bright. That’s why insurance is so expensive.

Then again, the tow truck and I were both doing well. Nobody operates a tow truck (or a motorcycle) by accident. However bad the wind and rain might look at the moment, the flashing lightning behind us looked far worse. We’d apparently matched the front’s speed. We were in the rain but the mess behind us wasn’t gaining.

I stayed a quarter mile behind the tow truck and thoroughly enjoyed my ride. I felt the water seep through my mesh jacket. I felt the hum of droplets hammering on my chest. I felt alive.

In a dozen miles, too soon really, I was at my turn. I gingerly puttered down a few miles of very muddy dirt, and happily pulled into the open garage. Once inside, I killed the engine and put down the kickstand.

That’s when it hit! BOOM! Like a wall of physical resistance, the real beating heart of the storm swept past and through. It happened just seconds after I’d parked. Lightning flashed and rain came down in buckets; though I was already under cover. Retrieving my paperback from the saddlebags (bone dry!) I bumped into my cell phone. It was on. Mrs. Curmudgeon had forwarded a tornado warning announcement and sent a follow up text warning me to get my ass home. I scanned the horizon, no funnel clouds; though these certainly were the right conditions.

I couldn’t help chuckling as I closed the garage door. It had been a glorious little adventure. I’ll think about this day when some heartless Karen is going on an estrogen bitchfest about safety; GMOs, global warming, second hand smoke, recycle or die, wear a mask, get a booster, don’t go there, don’t go alone, don’t say that, don’t do that, don’t think that. Cower in your house and depend on everyone else to do everything that needs doing, because they’re presumably disposable… don’t you know how dangerous the world is?

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I don’t fight it, I ride it.

There’s only one intersection in that town. Three stop signs and one road with right of way. I came to a full stop just as a huge tow truck rolled through the intersection. It was one of those giant trucks meant for towing semis. It was lugging a semi tractor and its 60’ grain trailer.

“Man I hope that grain trailer is empty.” I thought. I’m not sure how much those huge tow trucks can handle but the driver had 26 out of 28 wheels on the ground (towed semi’s drive wheels were suspended) and that’s a workout for anyone. I once read a formula that implied a ratio between wheelbase and weight capacity. I’ve since forgotten it, but the tow truck was very long. It had to be a hell of a load. He had a chase car and he deserved it.

Plunk! The first raindrop hit like a marble dropped from space. Widely spread big fat water drops were starting to fall. They landed loudly on my helmet and splattered into my shoulders. They soaked instantly through my mesh jacket. Cold as ice. I’m not an expert in atmospheric physics but surely they came close to being hailstones.

I revved the engine anxiously but the tow truck was followed closely by three fire trucks from the local VFD. Something interesting had happened. I hadn’t noticed any sign the towed semi had burned, but then again I hadn’t been looking. Three fire trucks and the biggest tow rig in the county? There are stories that I don’t know and I was seeing clues of one. In the old days, I’d read about it in tomorrow’s newspaper. Now I’ll either hear gossip or never know.

Plunk, plunk, whap! More drops fell and they fell hard; less like rain and more like little water balloons filled with icewater. I patiently waited for the VFD to lumber through the intersection. They pulled off into the fire department. Finally my coast was clear.

You might think I lit it up and blasted through the intersection. Of course not! Fresh rain on hot pavement is a recipe for a thin film of oily water and correspondingly low traction. I rolled out with the decorum of a limousine carrying royalty.

A half mile later I was up to highway speeds and out of town. Unfortunately, the rain had overtaken me; no longer individual raindrops but a steady pummeling on my helmet. Rain soaked through my jeans and my mesh jacket (as it was designed) offered no protection. Even so, I was clearly moving faster than the front. I was in steady rain but nothing exceptional. In my rear view mirror lightning flashed in rapid succession as the maelstrom let loose on the town I’d just left. Better to be here than back there!

Rain battered my face shield and blurred some of my vision. The sun hadn’t set but the clouds obscured it to a false dusk. I let off the throttle. No point in haste. Avoidance and evasion were played out. Now I was fully involved with an “interesting” ride. I might as well accept it and work with the risks as they are and not as they seemed when I was happily reading a paperback just 15 minutes ago.

Statistically, motorcycles are deadly. I know that. You know that. Grandma knew it too. Back in her day she rode a Harley. When this bike was new I gave her a ride on it. She’s dead now. I miss her. Someday I’ll be dead too. I know that. You know that. Current times being what they are, I have a feeling that lots of chronological adults are still grappling with the concept.

Statistically, rain is a serious additional risk to a motorcycle. There are cyclists that do not ride in rain. I am not one of them.

Statistically, darkness is a serious additional risk to a motorcycle. There are cyclists that do not ride at night. I am not one of them.

I rode on through the rain and darkness; paying very careful attention to my surroundings. What other life is there to live?

I’m not done yet…

Clouds which had been threatening all afternoon had coalesced into a deep opaque whole. Sunset was nigh. Low angle light slipped between the darkening skies above and the shimmering horizon below; like heat softened metal hovering just above the anvil. A hammer was about to fall.

I turned a full 360 degrees assessing the situation. It didn’t look good. The brooding skies I’d first noticed were the best of the lot. In the other direction the clouds looked positively malevolent. Wind was beginning to gust. I know the prevailing winds of the area. It was blowing in the wrong direction. Not good.

My plan had been to top off at the nearby gas station. That idea went out the window. This wasn’t yet an emergency, but it wasn’t a good time to fiddle fart around.

My motorcycle, a carbureted anachronism, takes a few seconds to warm up. I’m in the habit of thumbing the ignition while I’m standing next to it putting on my helmet.

Hustling to secure my helmet I became aware the bike was running without thinking about starting it. It was as if I’d willed the beast to life. Jacket zipped, gloves tightened, leg over, clutch in, kickstand up, clicked into gear, and under way. It happened in the smooth motion that comes from a thousand iterations and the tacit acknowledgment that I wanted to be anywhere but there.

Rolling out of the tiny town was frustrating. It took restraint to keep her under 30 MPH. The local yokel cops are pretty decent overall but they’ll gladly help balance their budget with a ticket issued to a flighty biker. So I reined in a “fight or flight” reaction even as I registered that not a soul was out and about. Small towns “roll up the sidewalks” early but even so I expected some human activity.

Wheeling through what felt like a ghost town at exactly the speed limit gave my brain time to catch up with my situation. A storm, a very bad one, was about to hit. You’d have to be a fool not to acknowledge that! Then again, so what? I’ve ridden through storms before. It’s a skill like any other; keep the wheels on the ground and don’t panic. You’ll be fine. The worst I’d get is soaked.

As my grandmother used to say “so you’re wet, you won’t melt!”

Wise lady she was. Also, not one to put up with bullshit. I hope I live up to her ways.

I did a little mental math. The winds were blowing south. I was heading south. The full force of the storm was still impending and not a done deal. If I could get out of town I’d be on open road and there’s not many storms that can outrun a bike. I might get wet but I’d likely be out of it before things got too exciting.

More to come…

The day had been unconscionably hot. Humidity hung like a haze over the day’s plans and lowered my productivity. I’d worked my tractor as much as I dared and then shut it down to cool. (The same heat that affects me will affect a machine. There’s nothing heroic about abusing equipment; especially equipment which is an expensive bitch to repair and maintain.)

By late afternoon, clouds had built up. It was still muggy and uncomfortable but the dam would burst in due time. Sooner or later rain would cool things down.

Fretting over lost work hours (I have more to do than time to do it) I made a heroic last stand at the woodshed. Covered with sweat and sawdust I used my little electric chainsaw to buck a small pile of limbwood I’d stashed on the sawbuck. Soon I had it stacked in the woodshed and was pleased to have made progress against the ever present specter of winter. (I’m impressed with the saw. I’d run one battery down and half of another battery without overheating the motor; though the handle did get a bit warm. I grudgingly admit a non-gas saw is darned handy for small jobs.)

By then I was all worked out. I took shelter inside. I wasn’t in the sweltering sun but it still wasn’t particularly cool. Folks might not believe it but not every building has central AC. I hydrated and consoled myself that I’d worked pretty well for my age. I’d been reluctantly but reasonably wise about it. When I was 19 I’d have accomplished twice as much, but I’d have likely overtaxed myself and spent the next day or two burned out.

A little before sunset I decided I needed ice cream. Had I not worked? Did I not deserve a reward? The rain hadn’t materialized and, if I hurried, the nearest ice cream shop would still be open. I hopped on my motorcycle and scooted away.

I have a protective mesh jacket that’s ideal in these circumstances. I bought it for a ride across Death Valley many years ago and always like when I can use it. It’s useless in all but the worst heat so rarely get to wear it. After a long bitter winter and an ugly spring that was nearly as bad as winter, it felt great to wear my “desert jacket”. I let the winds flow through the mesh and felt the efforts of the day ebbing from my core.

Ice cream is delicious, especially if you earned it. I felt like a kid again. I remembered hot days stacking hay bales and the ensuing ice cream cones. Then again, I’m very glad I don’t have to stack hay bales. All hail hydraulics and round bales!

I sat in the ice cream shop, which had better air conditioning than I’d left, and idly read a book. Not a Kindle download either. It was a plain old dead tree paperback. An old sci-fi book from 1976; written before science fiction got weak and crawled up its own ass. I’d read it before but was nonetheless consumed with the story.

Eventually it dawned on me that I was the only one in the ice cream shop. They were pointedly mopping the floor in my direction. I pulled myself out of the story and, mumbling apologies, shuffled for the door.

I stepped from that ice cream shop into a different world.

Stay tuned…